


filosofía básica

by corellians_only



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, din is an awkward himbo but he's got spirit, gender neutral reader, shameless fluff, translator reader, valentine's gift exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corellians_only/pseuds/corellians_only
Summary: not everything needs a explanation.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	filosofía básica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AssassinMina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinMina/gifts).



maybe if you were more useful, the mandalorian would like you more.

maybe if you knew your way around a navacomputer, or how to track bounties, he would speak to you with more deference (with solid words of worth falling from masked lips).

maybe if your blasterwork was more accurate. maybe if you didn’t drop things all the time. maybe if you could do more, be more than his translator and the occasional babysitter.

maybe if you were more than his obligation.

it was a predicament with which you had struggled for some time, trying to rationalize why he continued to keep you around. it wasn’t that you were afraid of him. he was elusive, yes, and dangerous when he needed to be. but the solid mass of beskar and tightly woven fabric was trustworthy and gentle in his own way.

the kid, you could understand why he kept. it was his task. his creed demanded it of him.

but you? the translator and local guide he had hired six — seven? — stops back? he speaks enough languages himself to get by. he had before you. why does he keep you now?

the initial reaction made sense. he had saved you from certain death, shielding you with his own body when an explosion ripped through the town with a thunderous, single-minded intent. mere meters from the point of origin, the beskar-clad man thrown you under the nearest market stall and splaying himself over you in an instinctively protective gesture.

he had taken you with him then, implicitly understanding that there was nothing left for you in a town filled with rubble. lacking formal certifications of fluency, you were unable to get any job besides hiring yourself out to traders — and in his case, bounty hunters.

but now? you double you will ever comprehend why he continues to let you be an unlikely member of his clan of two.

the sigh that works itself from your lungs is laden with uncertainty. words in a foreign script blur the more you try to stare at them, and it’s with a hazy squint that you’re finally able to break through and grasp the stretches of meaning encased in gentle characters on a datapad.

_“my understanding of you does not require justification.”_

it’s a proverbial phrase in this unusual language, you recall, jotting notes around the edges of the worksheet from which you’re studying.

it seems harsh. unyielding. unforgivable. something you might have heard in your childhood as you desperately tried to explain yourself to others.

a muffled rustle quickens behind you. rationally, you know it’s only the Mando. ( _the_ Mando? or just Mando? months later, and you’re still not sure how to refer to him).

but the irrational, trained part of you tenses, shoulder and neck muscles automatically holding fast and gripping themselves even more tightly, winding you up for an endless slew of possibilities.

a heavy, leather-laden hand rests on your shoulder. even through his glove and your sweater — hey, space is cold — you can feel the indent of his strong fingers pressing down into your skin.

fierfek, he’s warm. is that why he wears them? it’s a silly thought, you know; it’s more down to his creed than anything else. but you indulge the fantasy for a moment, unable to halt the melange of images from intruding into bits of translation. him, cupping his hands together, those long digits curling around each other for warmth. extending them over a fire and soaking in the heat. bringing them close to his face and blowing on them softly — oh. his mouth.

the thought of his mouth causes a fresh heat to swoop through your body, one that has nothing to do with heavy knit curled around your upper body. desire, longing, and something else, too. something more potent.

by the Force, you don’t even know this man’s name. or where he comes from. or what he looks like.

or even, you conclude wryly, if he even likes you.

revelations are not often complex. they may appear in convoluted, inconvenient circumstances, or in aching examples of tragedy. but as whole entities, they are tranquil and clear, piercing you not through the heart, but somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

_“my understanding of you does not require justification.”_

Your heart exhales.

Tension wipes away.

He removes the hand from your shoulder with a soft-spoken apology and asks what language you’re learning now, moving to lean against the small table where you’ve set up a workspace.

 _just one for fun, right now,_ you say and he almost laughs because _languages are too complicated to be fun._

“not everything’s complicated,” you say, glancing up to meet the impenetrable gaze of his black visor. the lighting’s dim enough that you can’t see completely make out your reflection; instead, there’s a soft glow bouncing off of the iridescent metal.

he graces you with one of his infamous head tilts. a steely acknowledgment before moving onto the next topic. “i like that phrase.”

“i didn’t think you spoke —“

“i can’t,” he puts in. a slight huff through the vocoder. has his voice gotten deeper? “but i recognize it.”

he repeats the words back to you. they sound different when he says it, full of rounded tones in place of the scraping syllables you had heard in your own examination.

what do you think it means, you ask him, not really expecting a response. mando isn’t exactly a expert conversationalist, but on evenings like these — those when he seeks you out with a burning inclination that filters through tepid steps — sometimes he’ll state an opinion or two before muttering about getting some sleep or checking the hyperdrive.

“i think it means that you don’t always have to have a reason for loving someone.” another tilt of the helmet, and you wonder what he’s looking at (you wish it was you; you wish he was speaking of loving you. you know that way you know that everything has changed). “some things, some people, you simply love. and that’s it.”

his visor turns again at the last phrase, and this time, there’s no doubting that he’s meeting his gaze. it’s layered through beskar and transparisteel and sensors and you still don’t know what color his eyes are, but you can feel them. you can feel the way he’s smiling softly and how his eyes blow wide with hitherto unspoken, in-actionable truth.

“that’s it?” you ask.

“yeah,” he nods, striding forward to take your hand in his. “that’s it, _cyare_.”

the armored forehead rests against yours. “love, _sen’ika,_ requires no justification.” he inhales, easy and bright. “just itself.” the free hand comes to cup your face. “just you.” 

he can’t kiss you, but you don’t need him to. 

you understand now.

you just need him. 

[fin.]


End file.
